


Fine Feathers Make Fine Birds...Or So They Say

by Blackbird_Wings



Series: Stars Fall [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Humour, One-Shots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-28
Updated: 2015-07-09
Packaged: 2018-04-08 12:28:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4305081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Blackbird_Wings/pseuds/Blackbird_Wings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wing!fic. A bunch of random One-shots about the lives of Team Free Will dealing with two new extra feathery limbs. Companion to The Stars Fall Like Feathers</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Well Shit, Cas!

**Author's Note:**

> Pairings: Can be read as very slight Destiel or a Pre-slash or even just friendship.
> 
> This story is based off of the plot bunny for The Stars Fall Like Feathers, which is already finished and posted in full.
> 
> The first chapter isn't really a One-shot thing, more of a scene setter for the rest, (It's based off of Chapter 4 of The Stars Fall Like Feathers and is very, very similar). After this, they'll just be random one-shots about Team Free Will dealing with two suddenly very solid wings. Like a spin off of The Stars Fall Like Feathers, or Filler episodes.

 

To Dean, the idea that Cas has wings is just one of those funny, small details that gets lost in the clutter of whatever the next impending disaster swinging their way happens to be.

He'd seen them in that barn the days following when the angel of The Lord had raised his ass from "Perdition". Well, shadows of them anyway.

Fucking terrified the life out of him too but lets not inflate the angel's pride too much my mentioning that to his face. Or out loud at all for that matter. Dean's got his man card to keep nice and fat and healthy, after all.

Still, as mesmerising as the dark shapes that had appeared beneath that lightening strike were, they had long since been pushed from his mind. What with just escaping hell and Lucifer deciding this was a fine century to take a walk, it can be argued that his mind had been rather preoccupied by more pressing thoughts.

Since then, there have been moments, usually after the angel had either just zapped in (or out) that the notion crept to the forefront of his mind. And if there wasn't something immediately trying to eat him or possess him or other dramas he needed to sort out, then _occasionally_ , he would entertain the image of the Angel of Thursday with his wings. It never lasted more than a few moments, being brushed off as one of those things that didn't really matter. Castiel had said himself that his true form would melt his eyes out of his head, not the angel's exact words granted, but the point still stands. He's even seen it happen to poor Pamela, and yeah, the older Winchester is still kinda pissed at the Seraph for that

So Dean has never bothered to believed he'd ever _see_ the freakin' things, besides those extremely rare, hair-raising moments when the shadows would appear for half a second under intense flashes of light. And that was damn fine to Dean; this was just one other thing that he'd had been told about the winged Dicks in his youth that was a lie. But, Dean was a Winchester, him ever expecting anything else was almost laughable. He'd accepted this wing thing as a shadow deal only and was totally fine with that. It's not as if he has enough time to sit around pondering the metaphysical properties of the wings of a celestial being with all of the personal social charm of a mouldy grape.

Seriously, what the hell do people think he _does_ all day? Fucking Sam spreading dodgy ass rumours again.

So, all things considered. Having a _massive,_ solid, freakin' feathered wall, smash him in the jaw, is a bit of a shock, also, very, very, oh so _very_ painful.

The shock apparently wasn't limited to Dean...

The hunt had been normal enough.

Witch, because they're always delightful, causing some issues to some random folks in Lordsburg, New Mexico. Nothing major. No deaths, no serious injuries, just a few spells drawing enough attention that Team Free Will had decided to check on it as they passed through on their way to absolutely anywhere.

Hell, Castiel wasn't even really supposed to be there. He certainly wasn't needed. But, the Winchesters had grown fond of their tag along angel, and the poor dejected idiot was moping up a storm about whatever new battles had broken out recently. It wasn't that Dean was unsympathetic. It was that he just doesn't really care all that much. He's got his brother, he's got his car. Life is freakin' peachy. He knows Raphael's on the war path, he knows Castiel's fighting like a maniac to keep everything together up top. But right now he needs a break, and a break is what Dean's giving him. If it helps take out a sleazy ass witch obsessed with screwing up her scumbag cheating ex-husband's life, the more the merrier.

They'd traced the witch to an abandoned building that looked as if it might once have been a bar, it was hard to tell with the gutted interior and cobweb covered signs. Darkness had fallen by then and they (mainly Sam, because to Dean all witches are a nightmare) hadn't even decided whether or not they were even going to kill the witch or just threaten it.

Again, it should be noted that the this is the Winchesters. Expecting a good ending is just a waste of good will power. And, if nothing else, monumentally stupid. But, as stated, these are the Winchesters, stupid is often a key part of their manifesto.

The Witch was at least three states away by the time they even arrived at the derelict building, but that doesn't mean it was wholly empty of witchcraft either.

This invariably leads back to Dean's current predicament. Staring through the dim light of the musty old building from his new place on the floor, bruised and all, gaping at the angel.

" _...Well shit, Cas!"_

The Seraph is standing, just. Half bent over with the sudden, shocking extra weight of the sudden manifestation and he's panting desperately, as if just holding them out is sapping his strength. His blue eyes are huge in complete and unbridled astonishment, an emotional cousin of _fear_ strong in his stunned gaze.

The angel is shaking lightly, and coupled with his shell-shocked countenance, it's the most expression Dean's ever seen on the stoic angel, but any comments that might have come from him about it were being completely _toppled_ by the sheer weight of what he's seeing, eyes tracking the huge limbs attached to the being's back instead.

For one, they're _freakin' enormous!_

The limbs are splayed unevenly to the sides, half stretching from where they have exploded from his shoulder blades, the tips of the massive flight feathers are being forced to curl and bend awkwardly to fit into the suddenly cage like space, the wings seemingly swallowing up the darkness around them.

It hits Dean in that moment that the wings are _black._ The darkness of their surroundings makes their size hard to measure, and make out clearly, but there is no mistaking the colour. And okay, yeah, the shadows of them in the barn had been black, but then, shadows generally are. It's another lie in Dean's mind, these wings warring with the memories of old artwork depicting delicate, _white,_ pristine feathers. But _fuck_ if Castiel's wings aren't the most _bad-ass_ things he's ever seen. And suddenly, frail white wings on an angel seems damn ridiculous, Castiel is a warrior, not some delicate, fragile, pansy ass fairy.

But maybe he was a little bias, or just better informed.

The time that Dean's cascading thoughts shoot through his mind only seems to last a second or two and it feels like it's occurring in painfully slow motion. Then suddenly, it's not, time jolting back into real-time so quickly it feels almost violent and the silence, bar Cas' panting, can be broken by a pin dropping.

Castiel takes a staggering step forward with a heavy _whine_ in his throat, the angel's breathing is ragged and heavy and it's pushing Dean's _freak-out O'meter_ off of the God damn scale. The black wings flare as he steps, a natural movement that looks as if it would usually help to balance their pull against Castiel's back, but all the sudden, very solid, shift in the wings' weight does is send Castiel stumbling forwards.

Sam, who had been momentarily forgotten by the older Winchester in the sudden explosion of ebony limbs, had kept his feet and reached the angel first. Dean wobbles to his feet, moving forwards once there to aid his brother, he's getting way to old for this crap.

Castiel's wild eyes lock onto them with such a feral look that Dean's steps falter a little. The action saves him another impromptu flight as Castiel startles all of them, including himself, by jerking backwards away from Sam's reach to his shoulder with a look of pure _panic_ blooming across his features. His wings rush forwards with a gust of wind that easily puts a small hurricane to shame, coming up as a huge, defensive, sweeping wall.

The movement catches Sam across the chest, giving him a free ride across the derelict building on an altogether different form of _Angel Airways_. Even Dean, who's falter had saved him from a similar flight, didn't have much more than a second to duck, and though he manages to keep his feet under the shockingly strong gust of air, he does get pelted with chunks of debris.

"Ow! Damn it, Cas!" The elder Winchester manages to growl. "What the hell?!" The pain was shocking him out of his surprise and he grappled his mind out of _panic mode_ and into _sort this the fuck out mode._ Sam gave a resounding groan from the floor several metres away in agreement.

Castiel turned, a rare display of miserable desperation on his face as he moved. "Dean! I-"

_Whack._

Dean coughed from the floor. _Well, damn._ The angel's wings had turned with him. Bruise number three from angel wings... Check.

"Castiel! Stop!" Sam had scrabbled back to his feet, dust and splinters of wood sprinkled in his now wind swept princess locks that has _Because you're worth it: Bar Brawl Edition_ passing through Dean's head even though now is possibly one of the most inappropriate times on earth. At least the angel has frozen at the barked command.

Castiel moves his wide eyes cautiously to the younger brother, frozen mid turn and wings spread and trembling. "Just...Easy." Sam has his best _soothe you_ voice on full power, his hands up in a placating manner and shuffling towards the winged creature like one would a wild animal trapped in a corner capable of tearing your head off.

Dean gets the impression that Cas would have narrowed his piercing _what did you say?_ stare at his brother at the patronising notion if the comparison wasn't so accurate. As it was, panic was ricocheting through the angel like bullets from the brothers' hand guns. Hell, his wings were vibrating with the angel equivalent of a spiking adrenaline rush because _this just shouldn't be happening!_

Dean manages to shuffle up, Sam not far at his back, until he's a just over a metre away from the angel. He's trying to keep himself small and non-threatening, because Castiel looks like he's fighting his body's automatic _fight or flight_ response, and honestly, both of those options warn of pain for everyone involved.

Castiel takes a step away, wings and balance flailing unevenly and both brothers jump back a pace.

Dean eventually braves back into the previous distance. "Castiel, chill out, dude." It comes out rougher and slightly shakier than he intends, but _Dean's_ use of his full name seems to be a soft comfort to the angel's fraying nerves, his wings settling gently at the soft vibrations that pass through his Grace at the words. "Can you...I don't know...just, sit down or something until we get a grip on this?"

It would be mildly insulting if Sam wasn't nodding quite so fiercely, eager to avoid another wing smash to the ribs because, _Jesus_ that hurts like a bitch. The panicked angel is obviously freaking out about this, and by the rapid, jerky movements of the new limbs, Sam hedges a guess that Castiel's never used them like this before. That thought in mind, Sam seems to jump on the soothe the angel train. "That witch is long gone, Castiel. Just...calm down yeah?"

The angel shoots both of them a wary look, before hesitantly dropping down to one knee, wings naturally rising and spreading to give balance, though the foreign new weight of them at all off-set this somewhat. It's like watching an animal learning how to walk again after losing a limb, the sudden loss, or gain in this case, of weight is playing havoc with his balance. Painfully slowly, Castiel moves to sit cross-legged on one of the large boards similar to the one Dean had crash landed on. The weight of the wings tugging sharply the angel's shoulders and he leans forwards, the feeling that follows the movement was both gratefully natural and terrifyingly foreign.

Sam and Dean hedge closer, the way the wings tense doesn't escape their notice, each one is _enormous_ , far bigger than even Sam. The dark feathers are reflecting the dim light, the natural oily black gaining a shimmering soft highlight of pastel orange. It's a sharp reminder to the two hunters _what_ exactly their third wheel is.

A fucking angel of the Lord, Black wings and all.

"I find myself sharing your disdain for witches Dean." Castiel rumbles tightly, strain of the situation clear in his gravelly voice.

He sounds damn well petulant and Dean can't help but burst out laughing, because _Damn, this isn't funny at all._ "Bitches, the lot of them." He agrees whole-heartedly, his tone sympathetic, he doesn't need the angel thinking they're patronising him, this is the most put out Dean's ever seen Castiel, even slowly turning human had never visibly shaken the angel like this. Instead, Dean edges closer, his knees almost touching Castiel's as he glances over the angel's shoulders. The angel's breathing is softer than before, Dean's contiguity is enhancing the angel's control through his panic, and even his wings seem more settled now, and in return, the brothers feel less wary.

Castiel's gaze finds Dean's. Locking for a few minutes, the angel takes comfort in the steadiness of the all too familiar green that he finds there, before he lets out a few purposefully calming breaths. The staring is, thankfully, from Sam's view, broken as Dean can't restrain himself from staring over Castiel's shoulder again, his gaze tracking over the huge appendages now filling a large portion of the abandoned bar.

Dean begins tracing the joints of the left wing with his eyes, taking in every small ridge and groove of each feather that he can see through the gloom, his eyes focusing on the amazing way the dull orange light leaking through the blocked windows seems to set the edges of the wings on fire. The black of the wings isn't wholesome, it's shimmering like a pool of oil resting on water, reaching occasional shades of green and stunning blues that move with every breath that Castiel draws.

The angel himself shifts a little under the entranced gaze of the older Winchester, Sam's expression was mirroring his brother's and there is nothing he can do to avoid it, not without risking hurting one of them. In his true form, Castiel's wings are a part of him, there generally isn't any staring in Heaven because _everyone_ has wings. That would be like humans staring at each other's arms, it wouldn't make any sense. But now, suddenly manifested against his will and a tremendous new strain on Jimmy's body, the staring is embarrassing and, by angel standards at least, a little rude. Humans though, he reasons, have never seen angel wings before, of course they will stare. He just wishes they wouldn't.

It's not making this any more bearable.

Finally, thankfully, something else ensnares Sam's sharp attention, and honestly, it's not like Castiel's wings are all that special by angel standards anyway. Not with the frays from his ventures into Hell and the _thousands and thousands_ of years as a warrior doing the work of God.

Castiel is grateful for Sam's distraction.

Dean's enthrallment is proving to be much more difficult to break.

Dean is still examining the left limb, watching the way one particular feather, hard to see on Castiel's exhale, suddenly gains a fiery outline on his inhale. "Damn, Cas. That's freakin' _awesome._ " The sudden urge to touch, to _feel_ what those stunning things are like, fills Dean to the brink, his hand twitching out without thought. The dark wings twitch away from the suddenly curious fingers, and Sam saves the angel from Dean's questioning gaze by waving a small piece of paper under their noses. Dean hadn't even heard his brother move.

"Dude, the witch left us a damn _message_ about this curse...trap... _thing._ " The younger hunter folded his huge legs beneath him to turn their positions into a weird little triangle, before holding the page under their noses so they could both read it.

_Hello Boys,_

_I guess you could say your reputation precedes you._

_And, I have to say, you're not someone I want on my ass. So, here's the thing, that curse of yours will wear off in a month or three. Here's the catch though, you come after me again, I'll summon every demon I get my hands on and send them your way._

_Let's see you boys handle those when your wing man's got...well, you don't need me to finish this joke do you?_

_Seriously though, I don't want any trouble with you guys, my husband is a cheating dick, but I'm done, leave me alone and your angel will be back to normal in no time._

_See ya around Boys_

_xx_

Dean re-reads the note twice, groaning miserably at the suggested time frame, and manages to growl out two words that summed up every ounce of contempt all three were suddenly spewing.

" _Fucking Witches!"_

–


	2. Mood Wings Pack a Punch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm open to prompts guys :)

One of the first things the Winchester brothers learn about Castiel's wings, is that they are a much better window into his emotions than his face is. Castiel's expressions are usually only ever visible in his eyes, and it's taken nearly three years for Dean to learn how to read them fluently. And now that the angel is getting used to having them manifested on this plane, he has far better control of both them, and his balance. Which is a freaking God send for Dean because he's running out of skin on his chest that isn't bruised a faint purple.

Sam, being the nerdy gigantor that he his, had been the first to ask why it was that the angel had struggled with them. Leading to a long, complicated, but not overly satisfying answer that could pretty much be summed up as; his wings were a part of his Grace, he _was_ able to manifest his wings physically like this, but the witch had _forced_ them too. And it was, lightly put, screwing around with how his Grace was flowing. The older Winchester's almost impressed with the angel's ability to over-complicate something that's really actually pretty damn simple.

Not for the first time, Dean Winchester curses that particular witch in his head.

But, the wings have their perks. Besides looking just down right awesome.

The first clue they receive about how sensitive the new limbs are to his emotions came when they'd first flared up at Dean. The elder Winchester had been staring at them again as they _finally_ arrived back to the motel room in Lordsburg, not long after the initial curse. The angel had already made it clear, or so he thought - a narrowed blue eyed glare and challenging head tilt- that he doesn't like them staring. Sam had shuffled off to shower, claiming there was too much dust in his locks to sleep with. Dean wasn't so smart.

The small flashes of discomfort and nervousness showing in Castiel's eyes had gone unnoticed for once, and after a few moments longer, Dean had shifted a little closer with a clear intention on his face, to enthralled with the shifting tints to see the cornered skittishness.

Castiel's expression didn't change really change except for his eyes, but he did lean away a little. Touching an angel's wings without permission was not just rude, it was down right inconsiderate by angel standards.

The ebony wings however, did not remain unmoved.

He didn't mean to do so, but the slightly irritated and mostly uncomfortable feelings shooting through him had them flare upwards from their folded position in the time it took for the human to blink. Reminding the Winchesters of a swan that was more than a little pissed off, albeit a black one. The feathers had curled forwards towards him with an unmissable air of defence, and Dean had jumped backwards at the sudden shift from them being folded carefully by his shoulder's to suddenly being every-fucking-where, scrambling back to the wall.

For his part, Castiel didn't really notice he had done anything at all. He'd felt his wings shift, but that was nothing new, they did it naturally when in heaven (even if they weren't manifested on this plane there), so hadn't paid it any heed. So seeing Dean clamber backwards until he came up against the motel room wall was a little perplexing. All he could do was sigh and watch in confusion. Humans were such strange creatures.

At least he wasn't trying to touch his wings any more. Even if the staring was suddenly far worse.

Sam, who had re-emerged from the bathroom to collect the wash bag he'd left in his duffel nearly tripped over his feet with a double take. Dean's huge eyes met his and Sam's voice _may_ have been an octave higher than was strictly manly. "O-okay...that's not... intimidating at all."

Castiel gave his trade mark curious head tilt of ' _I will never understand you humans, now what are you talking about?'_

His confusion at their behaviour had trumped the minor irritation of their staring and the wings folded themselves back against his back, if a little tensely. Ruffling just a little with Castiel's displeasure.

"Damn Cas!" Dean managed to growl, though there was no menace in it, just slight agitation that he had freaked out the way he had. "Just tell us if you catch us doing..." the elder Winchester flapped his hand in a universal gesture that summed up everything in that direction, "...whatever the hell that was you didn't like. Thought you were gonna freakin' skewer me, _Jesus Christ._ "

The angel looked more confused.

They did stop trying to touch his wings though.

Or so the angel thought.

Later on, it became even more apparent that the wings were like neon signs for the angels thoughts. And this was never more obvious then when they took a break from researching possible solutions for this curse and turned on the T.V.

They quickly learned not to sit too close to the angel. The wings would twitch with curiosity and bewilderment at whatever happened to be on, the two humans were still wary from the bruises they had already received from the appendages and were taking few chances. _'Giant damn Mood Rings, that's what they are.'_ Dean had grumbled quietly as one twitch had nearly knocked his beer off of the small rickety table.

At least Castiel actually seemed to realise how much his wings moved under subconscious thoughts after that.

After that, it hadn't taken Sam and Dean long to realise that it was the staring that was putting the angel on edge, and the angel himself had finally snapped out a line about angel etiquette. The wings had flared a little more purposefully then, and if that hadn't convinced them then nothing would.

And then Dean did something stupid.

Castiel knew it was going to happen eventually, humans are a curious and tactile species. He just didn't expect Dean to cross that line so soon.

Sam had been scouring through what few lore books they had stashed in the Impala until the words were all mashing together and he found himself having to read several pages twice just to take in the information. Finally giving up, he'd declared further research a lost cause, and went to sleep.

It was somewhat surprising that Castiel was even still here. But, if a curse could manifest an angel's most well protected piece of Grace against their will... Well, Dean figured that he would stick around if he was an angel too, too spooked if nothing else to venture far from familiar faces.

So, Dean had left the angel at the table, the Seraph scouring through his lore book pile with such an intense concentration that his wings were hitched up and tense. All Dean had to do was walk past from his seat to his bed. Simple, right?

Then the hunter had hesitated, the angel wasn't really paying attention, a small brush on the way past wouldn't do any harm surely? Hell, he probably wouldn't even feel it. His curiosity was smothering his Hunter's deafening instinctual warnings, the ignored alarm bells in his head ringing out _this is the worst idea you've ever had in your miserable life you stupid son-of-a-bitch!_

"Night, Cas" he'd supplied tiredly, barely getting a grunt of acknowledgement from the angel. Hell, he might as well of said "I'm planning on scrapping the Impala tomorrow" or something else just as impossibly ludicrous and the angel wouldn't have bat an eyelash at it.

Plan in mind, he stood. It was six steps max to the side of his bed. One step down and the pinions came into reach, instincts began roaring against moving his hand, but it stretched out subtly anyway. Second step, his fingertips brushed gently across the side of two of Castiel's Primaries.

_Big Fucking mistake_

Unfortunately for Dean, they had not been sitting too far from one of the motel room walls, so when the massive black appendage shot out like a solid coiled spring, it crushed him between the solid feathery mass and the wall.

Castiel's sudden gasp at having reality slam it's way through his thoughts on the lore he was currently reading, sharply turned into a grunt of pain at the impact. Mixing with Sam's sudden sleep filled shout of surprise as the younger man reached for his knife and leapt out of the bed at the same moment, tripping over his duffel bag and face-planting the floor. Miraculously managing not to stab himself in the process.

The angel's instinctual reaction at the foreign touch was a natural defence, and this was _exactly_ why he hadn't wanted them touching his wings without permission. Retracting his wing and saw his human coughing his lungs out. He couldn't find it within himself to be sympathetic.

The wing had hit Dean right in the Solar Plexus, thoroughly winding him. Not to mention how many bruises there would be on his skin tomorrow. "...D-Damn! Cas!" his voice _may_ have been a little hysterical as bits of the plaster from the damaged wall rained down around him.

Peeling himself off of the floor, Sam immediately connected the dots. "What the hell Dean!" Sam was far too tired to deal with this.

"Me!" Dean stuttered in disbelief, glancing between the glare of his taller brother and quietly exasperated stare of the angel.

Castiel let out a gentle sigh, human's are innately curious, that's hardly Dean's fault. Though he's glad that this can be a learned lesson in exercising caution in the future, this in mind, he took pity of the elder Winchester. "I'm sorry Dean, you startled me... my wings are...sensitive."

Dean's first impulse was to growl, but this was _undeniably_ his own fault, so he sighed instead, "Okay Alright! I Get it, no touching."

Like Dean could forget feeling a damn wing smash his ribs to pieces. Freakin' _Jesus._


	3. Feathers, Feathers Everywhere

It was, to Castiel's increasing annoyance, a huge inconvenience suddenly having his wings manifested against his will.

Ignoring the stand alone issue that; whatever that witch had done, had forced his Grace to manifest itself in a way that was certainly _not_ how he would have done it. Which was incredibly rude if nothing else, by the way. Ignoring _that_. There were other issues as well.

Teleporting, or 'Zapping' as Dean had taken to calling it, was aided by his wings. It was flight after all. And now, with his Grace was being redirected through his wings in a way unfamiliar too him, flying was not something he wanted to attempt until he could be absolutely certain that it wouldn't damage his Grace, or his wings. Which are essentially the same thing anyway. Trapping him on the ground, away from Heaven and it's never ending stream of fights and coups. A grave inconvenience.

This means that he's travelling with the Winchesters permanently until either, they find a solution to the curse, or it wears off. And while this is far from a bad thing, they _have_ being trying his patience and now the only way to get a few moments to himself, is to physically _walk_ somewhere.

Not a thing you can do during the day with a surprisingly large black wingspan.

Not unless you want to become a walking spectacle, and even Castiel, who's "people skills" are somewhat lacking, knows that moving around in daylight is just asking for trouble.

And they have enough of that finding them all by itself thank-you-very-much.

This issue of Castiel being effectively grounded, leads to the next problem Sam and Dean were now facing.

The first time it happened, Sam had laughed so hard he had to leave the room for fear of sudden death.

It had been late morning when Dean had grumbled his way out of his bed, growled his way to the crappy motels' shower, and then re-emerged, still growling, reaching for his jacket.

Dean's day was already somewhat sour from his late night of research, because this time Castiel was having no slacking from Dean and had hidden his porn stack, refusing to reveal the location even under threat (with a full background score being provided by the Sam snickering orchestra). Sam using over his half of the hot water had not helped to sweeten his mood.

So, when sliding his jacket over his shoulders, the sharp itching pain that came with it was the last straw.

Sam had just arrived back from getting coffee when Dean slithered rapidly back out of his jacket, a minor grunt of displeasure falling from his mouth before the man began flailing desperately to scratch the itch that appeared on that _one_ spot on his back that _no_ human could ever seem to reach.

Castiel, who had been re-reading one of the Latin lore books he had finished only a few hours ago, glanced with an air of confusion and a curious head tilt at Sam as if to say; " _Sam? Why is your brother doing that, Sam? I don't understand, is this normal?"_

Dean's straining arms, reaching both over one shoulder and down and under the other to reach the offending itch became increasingly fervent. But he would be damned before he asked anyone to scratch it for him, so he did the only other logical thing; throw himself backwards on to the customarily too-hard motel bed.

Wriggling like a dying worm for a second or two, the elder Winchester sighed in blessed relief, other two assholes in the room be damned.

Sam's internal struggle against the laugh in his throat was firmly beaten by the softy hesitant, resigned sigh of a question from his side. As if Dean had done this just to confuse the angel and he sounded so freaking _tired_ of the human's being weird.

"Why, Dean?"

The younger Winchester barely managed to get the coffee on the table before he started laughing, Dean growled and leapt to his feet, and Sam, sensing the man's ire, laughed his way out of the door.

" _Bitch!"_

Sam's audible laughter was getting quieter the further away he got, but they still heard the choking chortle at Dean's insult before the ridiculous outburst got _even louder_.

"Smug Bastard" Dean all but snarled, vowing manslaughter and nair revenge.

The hunter's anger died a little at the amused twitch of Castiel's wings, but the confusion in his blue eyed stare had his face flush in embarrassment. "Dude that was itchy as hell." He did _not_ whine as an excuse.

Castiel tilted his head, as if weighing the idea that maybe Dean was using an insult in subtext and he just couldn't find it. Warily, the angel turned back to his book, deciding to withhold judgement until later.

Dean huffed, crossing his arms before grabbing his jacket. Shaking it roughly, he was determined to find the little fucker responsible for that unbearable itch.

Two shakes later and a small black fluffy thing drifted towards the floor.

It was unmistakably one of Castiel's feathers.

One of Cas' fucking feathers!

Reaching down, he grabbed the fluffy thing off of the floor. It was definitely not any of the angels flight feathers, just two or three inches of downy fluffiness that made up the under coat of his wings. It was soft in his hand, like fine silk, but almost ethereal at the same time, giving off a strange warmth that Dean was sure must be a special angel feather trait.

Still, he was a bit too angry to take in much about the dainty thing as he slammed it down on the table in front of the angel who had been tactically ignoring the young Hunter.

The angel glanced up at the unimpressed green staring at him, and then at the small black thing being crushed into the table top. Castiel turned his head slightly to glance at the tip of his wing, before looking back at Dean with an expression that could only be summed up as a sarcastic _'Congratulations Dean, yes, that is mine, well done. You clever human, you.'_

 _'Sassy_ bastard' Dean growled to himself, although he _did_ keep the little feather _._

After this, they started appearing more often.

Dean soon had his revenge for the jacket incident at Sam, who quickly afterwards stood on a similar feather with nothing to shield his feet from the amazingly sharp feather's shaft. Seeing his huge, baby Moose of a brother, hopping around the room swearing every profanity he knew was more than enough to improve Dean's mood. And if he rubbed it in a bit... well, tough.

At least until he did the same thing less than an hour later.

Needless to say that solid footwear was becoming a 24/7 must.

They had been heading to Bobby's, his greater collection of lore books offering more chance of a solution to this curse than the few books they carried with them. But, true to Winchester form, a ghost haunting had come up in Hugoton, Kansas and so they are in for several days travelling to take care of that first.

This meant dropping into motels when they could, and although Castiel could wander further afield during the night, he was still beginning to develop a nasty case of cabin fever. His wings were firmly under his control and they were even becoming more manageable in hiding his emotions, but even angel wings moult a little.

His pacing at night was letting one or two of the tiny down feathers drift free, the much larger flight feathers did not shed nearly as often as their smaller companions, maybe once every decade or two, and none of them had dropped yet. Dean was _not_ disappointed, nor keeping track.

This led to much complaining and tossing and turning at night for the brothers if an errant feather had managed to sneak it's way under a duvet. Only the Lord knows how they got under there, but the little fuckers did.

The little fuckers got everywhere.

Not even the impala was safe.

But, soon enough, all growling about the small nuisances stopped quite abruptly when Dean finally snapped. "Damnit man! I'm gonna pluck those damn things off if they keep putting little holes in my Baby's seats!"

The sudden, icy stare that had pierced it's way through the darkness of the car-park to meet Deans eyes had made his mouth snap shut with an audible click. The ebony wings were reflecting moonlight and with the brazen orange of a nearby street light, the wings looked suddenly like they were burning with furious holy fire. Castiel's chest puffed, the enormous limbs flaring upwards, and the Winchester's weren't completely sure whether or not the angel was doing it on purpose.

"You will _not_ _ **"**_ _pluck_ " my wings, Dean Winchester." The sheer power crammed into his tone seemed shake the air, the street lights flickering, and _holy-shit his fucking eyes are glowing!_ The reaction had Sam scrambling forwards like the giant peace-keeper he was.

"Cas! He's... It was just a joke! He didn't mean it like that" The moose soothed, shooting his own most menacing bitch-face at his older brother "A _stupid_ joke." He had that; _You better suck up to him now or I will help him smite you, you arrogant ass!_ Look in his eyes, and for once Dean was all up for apologising because right now it looked as if Cas may actually smite him with a great deal of pleasure.

Dean manned up and took half a step forwards, cursing the way his pride was shrivelling away under that intensely dangerous blue gaze. "Shit, Cas. Sam's right, I didn't mean it." He had his hands up and everything, and God if he didn't feel like a suck up, but pride be damned! He couldn't have his angel thinking that he might actually try and follow through.

The angel tilted his head consideringly, before the wings quickly refolded themselves by his shoulders and the usual curious, calm blue replaced that warily dangerous ice in his eyes. "Oh... Good." He agreed amicably enough, shrugging off the incident as one of those little things humans did that he would never get, completely unaware of the way the two brothers were trying not to shake with relief.

No, he would never understand humans.


	4. "Convenience Store"? Yeah Right...

Of the many terms that have been used to sum up Team Free Will. Elegant, wasn't one of them.

None of them even came close.

Clumsy, dangerous, insane, infelicitous, ridiculous. Hell, the list is too long to even be written down. But elegant was certainly not among any of these words. And for a very good reason.

And Castiel suddenly having wings made of flesh and blood and ebony feathers instead of just Grace, didn't exactly help their case.

During the first few days or so, if an occasional lamp, book or bottle ended up on the floor because of an over-enthusiastic wing twitch, nobody was going to hold the angel to it. Well, they _did_ , just not to his face. The angel was so tightly wound at the moment that shouting at him could possibly level a motel or a small section of city depending on the time of day and how pissy the Seraph was currently feeling. Even with that one occasion a bed ended up being a _bit_ overturned, neither of the Winchesters were going to set off that avalanche of frustration.

However, by the time the group had almost arrived at their ghost hunt in Hugoton, Castiel couldn't keep using the " _I'm not used to this"_ card. Because, in short, he was used to them.

The differences in how his grace was now flowing had begun to feel as natural as it would have done if he had chosen to manifest the wings himself. The movements behind them were now smooth and far more controlled. Though they were still better advertisements of his emotions than the rest of him combined. And now that they were more controlled, the angel had taken to experimenting with his Grace again, not to the extent of teleporting just yet, but he was trying to somehow manipulate his invisibility technique to just his wings.

He was definitely more than bored with being trapped in either the Impala or motel rooms. He was an Angel, and they have wings for a reason, they were not designed to be kept _in_ things. Sam had even begun comparing his expression with a feral cat being shoved into a pet carrier for a vet visit whenever they arrived at a new motel or got back in the Impala.

So maybe it was Karma that had Sam being the first of the Winchesters to feel the negative effects of this...innovation, of Castiel's. Dean had still been asleep in the motel room when Sam returned with breakfast, coffee and Dean's Pie. What the younger Winchester was not expecting though, was Castiel to be practising this new technique in the middle of the room. The wings were totally invisible from the human eye, but not from human touch. As Sam found out when he walked straight into the leading edge of the arm of Castiel's left wing, catching him across the collar bone and his own momentum throwing him off his feet, swearing and cursing all the way down to the floor.

Dean naturally shot up shouting from his bed, sleep still blurring his vision, but Hunter's instincts making him reach for the Colt and leaping upright. This naturally had Dean's head finding the other wing and another cursing Winchester began groaning at the angel.

"...Cas, what the hell?" Sam groaned from the floor as the stunned angel's wings fluttered into sight again.

Castiel tilted his head, wings drooping a little as a show of guilt, "My apologies, I forgot that you couldn't see them. Are you alright, Sam?"

The younger Winchester groaned again, eyeing the mess that was once contained in his three cups now marring the puke coloured carpet, "My coffee..." was his only answer.

By the end of the next day, they had finally arrived in Hugoton, and another motel, this one colourfully named _The Flamingo Motel._ And after yet another wing-related hit and miss incident with the rickety wooden structure this particular motel passed off as a table, Dean had finally growled out a; "You know, Cas. I'm beginning to think angels are clumsy as fuck with physical wings!"

Castiel had shifted a little, wings twitching in what the Winchesters were beginning to understand as guilt and slight unease. "I am not...the most... graceful angel in my Garrison..." The angel seemed to wince a little at the mention of his Garrison and the irritation in Dean fell away a little. "My wings are, timorous in this form."

Dean gave the angel a sour look and damnit all if Sam didn't get that: _Dude, you don't know what that means?_ Lookon his stupid face.

"Timid, Dean"

"Shut up, Bitch!"

"Jerk!"

Castiel seemed only barely more amused than confused.

The angel wasn't truly all that bad, usually the dark wings were folded neatly at his back, only moving if the angel moved suddenly or as a show of strong emotion. And, since this was Castiel, neither of those occurred all that often.

But there were certainly times when the Angel of The Lord has his moments. And never let it be said that allowing the angel to accompany Dean to a small convenience store with wings, hidden by what some may call, an unpractised technique, was a good idea.

The angel was just grateful to out of the building for longer than the few seconds it took to walk between the Impala and their newest motel room, all the while searching for anyone who may spot the angel's immense wingspan. The new perception filter reflecting the light around his wings to make them seem invisible was working well, though he was grateful that it was dusk in case there was a mishap, the oncoming darkness would aid in camouflaging them should the technique break outside.

Walking beside the Righteous Man down the two or three blocks it took to arrive at the store they had passed on the way into the town, was some of the most peaceful moments of the past few days. Angels were not often prone to stress, the Apocalypse had been a constant source of it sure, but these last two or three days made the Apocalypse seem like a daily 'I misplaced my keys' stress compared to the 'middle-age meltdown' like stress that had been nagging at Castiel.

Dean had been glancing at the angel all the way on the short walk, half expecting the wings to shoot out and smash him in the side as they went along. He certainly wouldn't put it past the famous Winchester luck, but, _damn_ he wasn't going to say anything to Castiel when he had that small, stupid, pathetic smile on his face, growing a little every time the wind blew softly in their direction and ruffled his invisible feathers. The poor creature had been going silently insane in the motels, all the travelling in the Impala not helping.

He wasn't going to hand in his man-card yet though by mentioning that thought out loud. A man has his pride to look out for.

Dean didn't think it was actually being inside the motel or Impala that was problem, but rather, now that the angel _knew_ he couldn't leave, naturally, all he wanted to do was be outside. It was like telling a child " _no T.V tonight_ " before the desire to watch it had passed through the child's mind, now that they couldn't have it, they wanted it even more.

But damnit all if it didn't feel like sitting in front of a ticking time bomb in the Impala at times, those wings were insanely strong, he'd know, he'd been whacked with them enough times. When the angel finally gave in to his frustration, there was no question of " _if?_ " Dean was a little terrified of what the consequences to his Baby would be.

It wasn't a thought he was too keen on following.

Shaking it from his mind, he pushed open the door to the pretty empty looking store, 'Let the poor bastard have his ten minutes of freedom, it can't hurt.'

_Ha ha, Winchester. Ha ha._

The place was almost empty except for them, one other shrill looking man scrunched up behind the till, reading some crinkled, greasy magazine. The man's peering grey eyes examined them over the top of his magazine closely for a moment as they entered, narrowing minutely at the odd way the taller man held the door open for the other, not letting go until the brunette was at least three feet in the doorway. The clerk, huffing his distaste at knowing in a few moments he would have to pretend to care they existed, turned back to his reading material.

Castiel had been pretty oblivious to the little man's critical staring, but Dean was already acknowledging his instincts that the cashier was one of those funny little squirrel-like people who would take credit for that one, nervously shy, co-worker's hard work then sneer at them as if daring them to say other wise. Other wise known as; an asshole that Dean wouldn't mind punching in the face if an opportunity arose. Maybe it was a little unfair to judge a man's merits by appearances, but Dean had tortured souls in hell, he recognised the signs of a slimy personality, even if this one hadn't actually done anything inherently bad yet.

Brushing off the waves of contempt flowing from Slimy's direction, Dean quickly began gathering Sam's rabbit food, and his own perfect dietary choices. Castiel trailing him, not caring for anything in the place, and not looking either. The angel couldn't care less about being here, the fact was that he could walk in and out of this place _freely_ again, nothing was _keeping_ him here now that his wings were finally invisible. It was a glorious change, and he could quite happily trail Dean through shops like this for the next week and still be this content.

A small clanging sound drew Dean's eyes to a trembling beer bottle that had miraculously stayed upright after nearly tipping over as something brushed passed it. Green eyes accusingly sought out ocean blue, and the angel tilted a curious glance in the bottles direction. The hunter noticed the angel's shoulders shift, and Dean shrugged it off, now that the angel had had one close call, he gathered he would be more careful.

_Slow learner, Winchester._

To be fair to the angel, it was only _one_ thing that he knocked off a shelf, Dean was the one who took out the two shelving units. That didn't make it any less his fault though.

Dean had been reaching for his second pie, the food being comfort for the unbearable stress that had been hovering over them for the past few days. When a solid, undeniably wooden, clank came from behind him. Dean turned, taking a step at the same time, "C'mon, Cas. Careful ma-" His foot landed on something that rolled under his weight, and the Hunter had just enough time to catch the angel's gaze tilt curiously at him, before he fell.

The object under his foot rolled as smoothly as a ball, and Dean had no chance to recover, his back collided with the shelving unit behind him. The cheap construction wavered, all manor of items clattering noisily to the floor, mixing with the angered shriek of the cashier, before the thing gave completely.

The Hunter gave a very manly squeak as the half-second stability that had come from falling onto the thing, began to falter and fall backwards again. The noisy clatter turned into an out right cacophony of noise as the shelving unit landed heavily on it's nearest sibling, causing that one to fall as well.

In less than ten seconds, the shop went from quiet to disaster zone, all manner of day to day objects smeared all over the walls and even on the ceiling, the clerk roaring with hatred. Dean shot the angel a betrayed look as Castiel looked somewhat puzzled over the ruckus in that infuriatingly _Cas-like_ way, before Dean made an executive decision.

Leaping to his feet, Dean booked it past him "Cas! Out! Now!"

Castiel gave his friend a questioning look as the man disappeared from the store, before it occurred to him that he should probably be following him. Stooping to pick something up, the angel fled the scene too. Though for some reason, he didn't feel all that bad for the rather suspicious looking gentleman apparently running the store.

The pair ran all the way back to the Impala outside their motel room, Dean panting breathlessly and Castiel looking all the world like he hadn't taken a step. By the time they stopped, Dean was alternating between growling murderously and chuckling huffily. In the end, he leaned back against the Impala, still struggling to regain his breath and shot Castiel a look that clearly said _What the fuck man?_ Of course, being Castiel, he missed it entirely.

"Dude! What did you do?!"

The angel again tilted his head, wings twitching under their invisible shielding, "I believe one of my feathers caught what I believe was a 'Rolling Pin'."

Dean's eyes widened slightly, "A-A Rolling Pin! Dude, now we have to go find another Store! And my pie was left behind! What the hell does a convenience store sell _rolling pins_ for!"

A nervous shadow of a smile ghosted Castiel's lips as he pulled the box from where his arm was holding it just out of Dean's sight behind his back. "...Pie?" he offered quietly, he could tell Dean was more amused that annoyed, but the way to this man's heart was _definitely_ through his stomach, or so Sam often grouched good naturedly.

Eyes widening at the sight, Dean began laughing too hard that he couldn't even take it, though he did manage to gasp out, "Damn Cas! I'll repeat, D-Don't-ever-change!"


	5. Rain, Rain Go The Hell Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hurricane Bill is an asshole and Dean is a stubborn bastard

Dean Winchester is a hardy man. It's not even through pride or arrogance that he'll tell you that. It's cold hard fact. You go up against the scum of the world, eventually you'll be toughing it out through scorching summer heat and freezing winter blizzards without realising it isn't exactly what normal people do with their weekends.

And that's the truth of the matter.

But, just because Dean can face down the elements when he has to. Doesn't mean he likes it. The older Winchester can handle the cold as well as the next hunter. He'll shiver and bitch like any other normal person. But he won't skimp on the job just because he can't feel his feet.

Heat on the other hand is torturous. He's not sure what he did to deserve the crappy tolerance to heat that he's been given, but he regrets it whatever it was.

Still, even in heat he'll trudge his way to the end of the hunt.

But if there's one thing that Dean absolutely _hates_ working through. It's torrential fucking rain.

It's mid August. Which means the freaking summer rain storms are coming out to fuck up Dean's days almost every other week. The news keeps on blabbing about Hurricane Bill finally graduating Hurricane Sunday school and now it's slamming Massachusetts with utter ocean falls of rain.

Which is naturally where the Winchesters and their resident angel happen to be chasing down a ghost. They'd heard about the potential for the Tropical Storm Bill to grow, but they had argued about it in the Impala long enough that Sam had given way to Dean's certainty that they could get in, torch the asshole and get back further inland before _Poseidon_ struck ground.

Wrong.

The wind had been picking up as they left the motel, and just as they arrived at the graveyard it started drizzling grimly. There had been another small conference between the Winchesters, who eventually agreed that they were here now, it was pointless to turn back.

Castiel had spent those three minutes staring up at the thick black clouds above them, wings tense and hitched. Dean hadn't often seen Castiel seem so grave about something, he was watching the sky like it was an old friend doing something the angel seemed resigned to, but wished it wouldn't.

Castiel voted to leave, Sam and Dean wanted to stay.

"Next time I vote against you, Cas. Tell me to shut the hell up." Dean grumbles hatefully an hour and a half later. The wind is howling, but more than that. They're soaked through to the bone. The rain is pounding down from the sky, a constant waterfall biting at their eyes and stamping out their matches.

They'd finally dug the damn _Mrs Drywood_ , (deservedly ironic, Dean knows), up and were just trying to get the damn match to stay lit long enough to torch the bones before the lighter fluid washed away with the salt. He'd lost his damn lighter and hadn't replaced the stupid thing yet.

Growling when the damn match didn't even spark on the millionth try, Dean threw the useless fucking things into the hole. He was filthy, freezing, and soaked to the damn bone. Sam didn't even whine about it. The younger Winchester could barely see through his waterlogged mane hanging irritatingly in his eyes, where it returned to no matter how many times he swiped it behind his ears.

Castiel had been on Keep The Spirit Away duty. But the sheer aggravation in Dean's voice drew his gaze. The angel was just as soaked through, wings sleeked down and waterlogged, their weight pulling painfully at the Seraph's shoulder blades. His messy brown hair was sticking down to his forehead and his coat had changed to a colour twenty shades darker than it had been before.

There was a sharp rasping noise behind Dean's back that had him startle back to defence. His misery at being stuck out in a storm that was quickly building to dangerous territory would damn well not be the death of him. For one thing, he gets the impression that he'd never live the embarrassment of it down. It's somewhat of a surprise when he turns then, to have Castiel come up between the brothers, heavy onyx black wings stretching out behind him. The Winchesters don't understand immediately, but then the wings arch up at the joints, creating a thick, graceful shield between the brothers and the never ending downpour.

The difference that it made to their spirits was enormous. The rain had been belting down so hard it was almost painful, and even those first few seconds was a thousand times better than before. A stray drop still broke through occasionally, slipping down between the layers of long, drenched feathers, but most of the water was running from the tips like huge rivers.

Grinning like an idiot, Dean swiped the lake from his face. "Damn. Thanks, Cas." He meant it too, clapping the angel lightly on the shoulder. Sam gave the Seraph a bright smile of his own, actually ringing out his hair and slicking it back over his head. It made him look like one of those sleazy New Yorker creeps that always plays the villain in cheap Hollywood dramas and Dean chortles at the _Oh_ look of surprise on Castiel's face when he does so. Sam glares, Dean just laughs harder.

Castiel flicks out his hand before they can start arguing and the bones erupt into a welcome blaze. The fire licks up at the rain, but it's supernaturally charged and far hotter than it should be. The falling bullets hiss and spit as they land on fiery tinder, but the flames barely flicker down under the elements. The warmth rears up like a living entity in the dark, wet night. The heat curling around their limbs and sinking through their clothes.

Dean sighs with the comfort. It seems like years since he was last dry, and a distant scream of anguish of a prowling Mrs. Drywood being forced to move on is a wonderful soundtrack to Dean's night. Content with a job well done, even if they're filthy, drenched and miles from the motel, the hunter feels sleep sinking down into his bones.

A soft tremble from his side breaks his grateful reverie. Castiel shivers lightly, blue eyes watching the fire and not seeming to care that his vessel is reacting to the outside elements. Castiel's Grace has been on the fritz for months now. And even though it's getting stronger again, Dean often forgets that he's not completely bulletproof yet.

The observation shakes him out of his tired stupor. Castiel's huge wings are covering the Winchesters, sure. But not himself and the water is still running from his hair down his face in rivulets. Dean sighs thickly, damn angel will stand there forever before he realises he's an idiot and needs to get inside and dry off before he freezes to death. A gale chooses that moment to tear through the abandoned graveyard and Castiel braces his feet more firmly against the slippery mud and flattens his wings at a more aerodynamic angle to avoid being dragged forwards. It lasts only a few seconds, but the tilt to the limbs is enough that one of the rivers of rain water floods icily down Dean's back.

The hunter gives an aggrieved half-shout, leaping closer to Castiel's shoulder and more under the wrist of his fanned feathers. Sam snickers as he brother almost butts heads with the shorter man in his enthusiasm, and Castiel just tilts his head and shivers.

_PersonalspacePersonalspace._

Red faced and growling, Dean backs off a step.

"Okay, Parapluie. Time to hit the road." He snaps moodily, un-stabbing his shovel from the sopping mud beside his boots.

Snorting, Sam does the same. Usually, they re-bury the grave. But it really is hacking it down and the younger Winchester is fighting not to shiver too visibly. Dean has always been the better one at tolerating freezing weather. "Was that french, Dean?" He scoffs, and the trio trudge away from the grave and across the slippery grass. The fading heat from the fire makes it harder not to shiver.

Castiel's wings twitch above their heads, but they stay extended enough to keep the worst of the flood battering them. "Umbrella...I believe." The angel agrees, tone momentarily puzzled. He has to pause to brace against another howler of a gale rushing passed, before they continue and the Seraph's eyes narrow dangerously. " _Dean._ I can leave you to walk _unhindered_ if it will improve your mood." He snaps shortly, he is feeling the crawling sensation of the cold now and he is getting wetter for keeping the boys dry.

Dean winces as Sam elbows him hard. "Christ, Cas. It was a joke." The blue eyed stare he gets tells the hunter that this is a rather poor defence. "All right! I'm sorry! Now can we please just get out of this damn rain!"

The Seraph's squint of _You're being excessively irritating, Dean. It's unbecoming of you._ Sends all of Dean's soaking wet hackles up, but he forces them to stay in his throat because the angel really is starting to shiver and Dean _really_ doesn't feel like getting any wetter than he has to.

Sam merely gives him a sour glance. "Where the hell did you learn the french for _umbrella?"_

The older Winchester scowls deeply. "Shut up."

It pans out that the most painful part of that hunt turned out to be the return trip. They were absolutely filthy; dripping water and thick mud over everything they came into contact with, and Dean threw a record making bitch fit about driving back in his Baby. Whispering apologies and promises of waxes and tune ups, the hunter crawled the Impala back to their five star lodgings of the week. The weather really was becoming appalling. Not the worst that they've ever been out in, granted. But enough that the car sometimes rocks with the gusts, the wipers a blur in a futile attempt to clear the water away. Dean can barely see half a foot in front of his Baby's bumper.

Eventually, they get to the motel without dying. Dean manages to slither past the other two in the door way and makes it to the bathroom in two strides. Bolting the door, Dean can almost hear the bitch-face bouncing off of the wooden door frame.

He thinks of taking all of the hot water, but older brother instincts that Sammy not catch a cold demands that Dean gets out far too soon for his liking.

Changed and clean and dry, the hunter flops down at the motel table and flips off Sam as the taller Winchester eyes the shower as he passes through the door. Castiel is standing where the hunters left him, just inside the door frame. His wings are dripping small lakes on the floor, dyeing the puke coloured carpet a few shades darker. It's probably the closest thing to a clean this motel has ever seen.

The moron is still shivering. Dean does not care. He doesn't.

"You gonna stop the water works, Cas?" He asks snappily instead, stretching like a tired cat and heading for the kitchenette. Castiel doesn't answer him and when he turns, the angel is squinting at him like a bedraggled owl. "Don't glare at me, it's not my fault it's raining." Though it is kinda Dean's fault they were out at all. It was his idea to go into the storms path. Cas had wanted to head in the other direction. The staring continued. Dean smacks the switch of the kettle and stares just as moodily back.

"Seriously, man. Stop dripping all over the place, you're making a goddamn mess."

_Wrong move, Winchester._

With all of the graven countenance of an insulted, water tousled raven; Castiel took two, slow, overly dramatic steps in Dean's direction. Water poured loose as the heavy, drenched feathers rose menacingly. In the two seconds that it took for the wings to ruffle and open, Dean understood and dived to the left. The angel shook out his two wings as harshly as he could, seas of water shaking loose and coating every surface. Dean was sprayed completely by the icy water, once dry clothes sticking nastily to his skin as he attempts to cower, whining shrilly.

There was a stunned silence in the aftermath, the murder in Castiel's eyes has faded, watching Dean with nothing short of malicious triumph in that blue gaze. The hunter barely breathes for a thick moment, puffing and squirming against the sudden shocking cold of his clothes. All at once their eyes meet, and Dean can't help it; he laughs. The sound breaks out his chest and he has to bend over to rest his hands on his knees against the mild insanity.

Castiel's lips twitch, and soon enough the Seraph gives a quiet chuckle. "Dean. You should get changed. You're making a mess." 


	6. Winds of Change...That's a Good Thing, Right?

There are some hunts that Dean Winchester is rather insanely proud about.

Like that one time Sam took off the head of psycho-vamp Gordon with nothing short of barbed wire. Or the time that Dean was out hunting a pair of shifters and killed both with one bullet because it ricocheted off of a slimy sewer wall – Dean maintains to this day that it was skill, not luck and fuck you, Sam.

Then there are other hunts. The ones that make Dean cringe when thought about in the early hours of the morning between Hell's mental reality T.V show quality dreams, when he's staring up at the cracked ceiling pondering the messed up train crash that is their lives.

But. There are also the hunts that Dean Winchester can't decide which category they fall into.

Hunts like this one.

Late August, you would think, would be a relatively warm time of year to be wandering around in deserted areas chasing down crazed messed up water nymphs. But, it's surprisingly cold. They're up North, avoiding the rain storms as much as possible after the last incident with hurricane Bill, and hiking through an endless trail of soaked forest trails and flooded river plains around a small bumfuck town trying to find out what keeps eating everyone. Did he mention they're in the Rockies? And it's freaking _cold_ in _August_.

Dean is sticking to his water creature theory, though Sam is more wary of a Black Dog. Castiel is an asshole and is stoically not picking anything.

Which is fine for the douche with the blade that can kill almost anything. Not that they don't have spares, but Castiel isn't fond of them using his dead family's blades for something so menial, and Dean doesn't really like touching anything to do with the dead dickbags either. Though he gets the impression it's for wildly differing reasons.

It's late in the day, evening drawing in. The sun's disappearing and Dean and their resident Seraph are less than patiently waiting for their third member to get his ass back to their meeting point next to the Hungry Horse dam. They'd broken off into groups to scan the water side for any evidence for whatever it was they were looking for; Dean had been a little uneasy splitting up, but it's the fastest way and at least they have walkie talkies to keep in touch.

If Dean's right and it is some sort of water creature, then all they have to do is stay out of the water. Which was fine and they'd been doing it all day. But if there _was_ a black dog, well…let's just say Dean's eager for his brother to get back before dark.

The wind's really starting to pick up, the height they're at making it feel all the more blustery and chilling. Castiel is a calm centre a few metres away, standing behind the rails and watching the sunset behind the horizon of the South Fork Flathead River. Its garish orange light reflecting from the clear water ignites the oily black of his folded wings, each feather stark against the alpine rocks that he's profiled against from where Dean's standing off to his right. They could be huddled up in the Impala, but Castiel hates being sardined and though the older Winchester's not one to admit it; the view is damn stunning. If you'll pardon the pun.

The distant rush of water moving nearly six hundred feet below them mingles in with the hush of the wind and the soft sound of leaves rustling in far off trees. The air is crisp here, fresh and wild and not at all like the stuffiness waiting for them back in their less than stellar motel room of the week: where Castiel's adopted black rat is, no doubt, sleeping cosily in a warm nest of blankets.

Okay. Maybe Dean's a little jealous.

A harsher breeze whips through the open air above the yawning dam, Castiel braces his feet more firmly as it catches his wings on the way around them. It seems to startle him from his thoughts, the angel glancing around calmly from where he's been staring into the wide expanse of water in front of him.

"Where the hell is Sam, man?" Dean complains loudly, wishing that he'd never agreed to wander so far from his baby, parked just off the road beside the dams' edge. He wants a beer damnit. He blows warm air into his hands when Castiel wanders over to his side, looking out over the wild plains of the Rockies downstream of the immense concrete structure they're perched upon like tiny birds.

He gives the winged angel a scrutinising glance and raises an eyebrow.

Castiel steadfastly ignores the stupid wry grin on the hunter's face. Another gale like howl rushes past, and other than locking his legs, the angel doesn't move beyond the careful ruffling of some feathers. Dean gets the distinct impression that this powerful old creature has landed in the eye of storms capable of tearing countries to pieces, and held his ground.

The weather's getting worse. It could be a lash out from the passing hurricane, but they're on the wrong side of the States really and it's bitter wind stinging his eyes. Mountain weather is always unpredictable, and they're pretty high up.

The crisp air comes over as suddenly damp, like there's a hidden humidity colouring the wind.

Castiel tilts his head, wings twitching out absently.

His old blue eyes scan the wilderness at their sides, as if he's only just noticed them and is intent on picking them apart one pine needle at a time. The world goes quiet. The soft constant shush of water moving below them is the only back drop; the late singing birds fall silent.

"Cas?" Dean asks, voice careful and low. His instincts are ruffling, a whipping gale flooding past in a harsh moment or two. Strong enough that Dean grips the hand rails. The angel at his side tucks his great wings in, flattening them to his back as much as possible.

The hunter just has enough time to think that maybe they should get off of the top of the dam before a wailing starts up.

It's a thick, organic sound. Hitting every single one of Dean's protective instincts as it rattles its way through one ear and out of the other. He tenses harshly, the sound small and desperate.

It sounds like a child.

It's not the soft hitching sobs of a lonely, or sad little kid. But the heart shattering screams of a terrified toddler. Dean knows better than to run to the sound, coming as it is from the reservoir, but something in Dean softens around the noise. His soul melts inside his body, drawing him in; he can't leave a scared child alone in the wilderness. What kind of person could? The sound is tiny and terrified, and no creature could impersonate something like _that_ , surely. Nothing could set a trap with that.

It'll be fine, just get to the edge and look around. No harm from that. There's a tiny kid out here that needs help, Dean can't just stand here. It's wrong. It is. His feet move, but he's surprised by the lack of caution in his steps, calmness floods his veins like old whiskey. It's so clear. Get the kid. Just look.

He's at the edge now, a whole ocean of beautiful sky-painted water opening out before him. The screams are louder, but the urgency in his body is fading, his arms feel heavy.

But he's not close enough, he can't _see_. He needs to get closer, he needs to _look_.

Something hard as steel clamps around his upper arm when he puts both arms on the rail as if to climb it. He's spun violently, vengeful blue fire burning up into his eyes and Dean struggles; this isn't what he wants, he needs to _see._

There's an explosion of water. Something huge and wet and furred erupts from the reservoir, the liquid icy as it stings the hunter's skin and _Oh._

The world snaps back into high definition.

The beast misses them by a hairs' breadth, Castiel hauling the fumbling hunter backwards with him. The thing hit's the asphalt of the road and Dean gets the fleeting glimpse of a huge wet canine with spiked up fur, four webbed paws with freaking opposable furred thumbs, each adorned with enormous fucking claws, and a tail like a whip. It's dark-furred and giant, coming up to at least the human's hip; eyes empty sockets, teeth longer than Dean's fingers and the _sound_ it makes is like a chainsaw roaring in a cave.

It touches the ground for only the fleetest of seconds. Dean has absolutely no idea what the _fuck_ this thing is, but he doesn't have much time to get his gun out of his waistband before it lunges at them. Castiel seems just as stunned as the hunter, his iron grip heaving them both backwards, but there's also a second of: O _h, we're on a dam_.

There's nowhere to go. Castiel, to his credit, doesn't falter, he slashes his blade against the creatures face as it barrels into the pair of them, not giving them the time to dodge sideways. Dean's back slams into the high rail behind them the same time the thing _shrieks_. It snaps ferociously, crowding them against the bar as the hunter gets off a silver shot.

The bullet buries into its chest but it doesn't even flinch.

 _Shit_.

They've run out of room, Castiel doesn't have the space to _zap_ , not with his wings manifested like this, and he can't take a slash without exposing Dean beside him. The monster doesn't give him a choice, as if it senses the weak-powered Seraph is the bigger threat, it pounces. Castiel tries to duck sideways and bury his sword into its throat, but it catches his other arm in his teeth as it goes, wrenching the angel violently and shoving him harshly against the bar. The hunter leaps, grabbing tightly at the fabric of his tan coat and there's a terrible moment where the creature's weight against the growling Seraph hit's that precarious balance point _just so_.

Dean swears time slows time as the furious freak show bites down hard on the angel's right arm, but miraculously, they don't pitch over the bar. Dean knows it's a bit pointless, but he stabs his iron blade right in the fucker's face. It snarls, foetid breath making the hunter's stomach roil nastily.

And then, just when the older Winchester thinks that this can't possibly get any worse, the strongest gust of wind yet howls past. It catches the angel's right wing, the only one of the two not pinned against the bar, and fuck it all if it's _just_ enough force to finish off what the monster was starting. The pair over balance, Dean scrambles to get a proper purchase on Castiel's coat, but the angel, even in the wild pain of his eyes, won't grab onto the hunter.

 _Damn stupid dick!_ The hunter thinks viciously, damn suicidal angels with fucked up protective instincts!

He quickly realises that it doesn't make a difference. In the heart beat it takes for them to over-balance, the creature's flank slams into Dean's shoulder, staggering already from the faltering grip on his friend. Dean Winchester realises that he may have fucked up as they trio plummet off of the side of the Hungry Horse dam.


	7. What Do You Mean "Duck Jokes Aren't Hilarious"?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part Two of what came to be known amongst the Winchesters as "The Duckling Dam Case"

Several things about Dean Winchester's most current life problem, are becoming incredibly clear.

Like, he remembers just _how much_ he fucking hates heights. And that freefalling over a dams' barrier because of a soggy _Lassie_ wannabe is a pretty lame way to die.

He also knows that through the blistering sting of the freezing wind biting at his face, he can see the curving, and distinctly solid looking concrete wall and spillway level coming up to meet him; he knows this is going to _hurt_.

What he doesn't know, is that the tumbling jumble of Seraph and monster is falling several feet above him, and the angel is becoming severely and irately unimpressed.

Castiel is never pleased about surprises when it comes to monsters doing the unexpected, and he's also pretty pissed that Dean's going to die if he doesn't, to quote said hunter, _"Get his shit together."_

It's a surprisingly motivational phrase.

The beast has still got its fangs embedded within his right arm, and through the roar of pain in the limb, the angel fights to get a grip on the situation. It's a bad wound, but the creature is not really capable of damaging his already rather limited Grace; it'll heal on its own. Dean's constant scream below sends the angel's borrowed heart pounding. The concrete curves as they fall, and the hunter's going to hit it any moment now with a devastating force. Snarling blackly, the Seraph twists his blade and impales it through the beast's shoulder.

It shrieks, thrashing violently free of the wound. Castiel takes the opportunity presented to him and rips his arm free of its jaws; it tears the flesh badly, but if he doesn't do something about this fall now there'll be much worse to come. The beast separates from him, falling away with the force of Castiel's attack and unlike the angel, it was built for water, not air.

Instinct drives his movements; twisting around to face the ground and slamming his right wing into the slope, he bounces himself clear enough away from the wall to get his left wing around to stoop. He can't zap with his mangled Grace in the meagre seconds he has spare.

Angels are all incredibly skilled fliers; each have a skillset that might lean towards one specific air trait in particular, but there's never been an angel that couldn't right this current flight without hitting the river below, even with his current manifestation.

But, he has drained Grace and a human to catch; Castiel's not too fond of his odds. But, if the Seraph was to admit to one particular area of flight he excels at, sheer strength of movement would be it. His wings were of the strongest of his entire Garrison, courtesy of youthful days spent challenging himself against the enormous solar storms of a universe not much older than himself.

Folding the black limbs tight, he slices through the air like a blade.

Dean, somewhat understandably, is not a graceful faller. Howling and flailing all the way down, the angel is at least grateful he's got _some_ air-resistance going on; even if it's not intentional.

The spillways is almost upon them, the angel closing back down to the curving slope of the wall.

He knows for definite now; if he continues to try and catch the hunter, he will not avoid the spillway level unscathed.

He reaches for the human anyway. He doesn't bother announcing himself, Dean would never hear him anyway. The force he hits the hunter with is unfortunate, but they don't have the liberty of time to lessen the blow. Gripping his good arm tightly around the hunter's shoulders, the way Dean clings back is proof enough that he couldn't care less about the bruise he'll get for the save.

And that's all the time they have. The spillway is mere metres from them. Castiel slams his foot into the concrete wall hard enough the surface layer fractures around his shoe, kicking off, he spins. He flares his wings out wide, catching air desperately.

It's a battle against instinct, keeping them open is going to hurt.

It does. They _nearly_ clear the spillway entirely, and it's such a close deal that the angel has a tiny shimmering hope they'll make it. The illusion of hope falls away less than a heartbeat later and he cringes as his right wings' top-line smashes through the lip of the thick concrete structure.

It bites terribly, but he can't do anything about that now. He beats his wings down in earnest, managing to slow their fall from lethal to painful, it's the best he can do, there's no time left.

The pair hit the water _hard_.

\--

I gotta tell you, going from falling almost five hundred and seventy feet, to Castiel Anti-Lock Braking, to water impact; is incredibly disorientating.

Screaming his lungs out was fun and all, but the instant that his angel freaking _rammed_ into his shoulder was one of the most relieving moments of Dean's whole entire adult life. And that's saying something. He'd been falling for what felt like hours, and suddenly they were slowing down harshly enough that the hunter felt sick.

He'd given himself a panic stricken moment of hope that the worst was over. And then the angel _hit_ something. The hunter doesn't know what at the time, what with being super manly and squeezing his eyes shut and all, but later it becomes pretty damn obvious it was the spillway ledge.

Then more braking, and _cold._

It should have hurt a lot more, hitting the water. So the only thought that Dean scrambles too in the chaos of icy water freaking everywhere, is that Castiel must have hit the water first.

The pressure of the river is harsh, he can feel the gravel of the river bed under his back and he spares a moment to thank anything that's listening that the hurricane had swollen the rivers. Otherwise there's no way it'd have been deep enough not to break anything. He lurches under the water, the current is surprisingly strong, there's a thumming noise in the background from enormous turbines as the hunter struggles desperately up to the surface.

It's _cold_. Stinging the hunter's skin nastily and burning his eyes when he strains to orient himself through panic of the fall and shock of the water. He thrashes his feet, his clothes weigh a tonne.

And then there's _air_. He comes through the surface like it's the last barrier out of Hell itself. Gasping like the drowning man he spent the last few seconds playing the part of. Adrenaline is spiking in his veins, powering his actions even through his muggy confusion, as he treads water. He clips a rock just enough to scrape his palm and catches a dizzying glimpse of the top of the dam, far, far above him. It makes him feel sick.

Coughing. It occurs to him that something's missing.

Castiel.

Panting, he makes a messy spin on the spot, glancing around the wide river he's found himself in. "Cas!?"

He's probably fine. Like a little water is gonna take down Cas.

The hunter frowns worriedly. The water is biting, chilled from the runoff from the Rockies around them. Dean is shivering almost as soon as he surfaces.

" _Cas!?"_

Okay. Calm down, Dean.

Panting and shivering, something brushes past his leg.

He jolts, stroking away violently. He chokes out a hysteric laugh. "I swear to God, that better be you fucking around, Cas!" Silence meets him. There's no bird song down here, and the river seems muted and chilled beyond anything natural.

Get to the shore. You can look for Cas from the shoreline, stop sitting here like a fucking _duck_. Two strokes in, that fucking wet mutt pounces on his back, leaping out of the water like a freaking SeaWorld Dolphin. Its claws dig into his shoulders, it's heavy as shit and they sink under the freezing cold surface easily. Dean thrashes, managing to throw it from his back. Twisting, it takes a moment to notice that he's lost his iron knife. _Shit_.

It's toying with him. It's in its element here, and Dean is not. Its eyes are just vacant sockets, but the hunter gets the distinct impression it's eyeing him up like a three course meal.

Lungs burning, he scrabbles back to the surface, the darkening evening light at the surface desperately tempting. He's inches from the surface again when he catches sight of the gaping set of teeth coming right at his head, cutting through the water like a bullet.

Dean's heart sinks in his chest like a stone.

This is damn shameful. Killed by a wet mop. The angels are all gonna die laughing when he shows up… If he shows up in Heaven at all at this rate.

All but one, that is.

As it turns out, this angel beats him to the post.

There's a dangerous glint of silver through the murky water. A harsh current pushes against the hunter's back as _something_ just kind of, _swooshes_ past. Makes that noise and everything.

All Dean gets the impression of is a giant fucking black penguin rocketing into the monster of the week and burying a blade to the hilt in the fucker's fugly face.

Curious how easy it is to forget that air is a thing you need when you realise that the enormous flipper things are actually water-logged flight feathers and that Castiel makes a damn good penguin impression. He does the rather intelligent thing of gasping in stunned stupidity and nearly drowns after all.

Castiel hardly pauses, the monster goes limp, the angel spins and one huge beat of the wings underwater has them both breaking the surface half an instant later.

It's all so freaking _surreal_.

Duck jokes.

Years' worth of duck jokes are presenting the opportunity to be used against an almighty angel of the Lord. Or at least they would be, if Dean could stop coughing and shivering long enough to scrape together an insult about waterfowl and tardiness and swan dives.

It's difficult to see what's going on, all Dean knows for the next few moments is the grip on his arm like steel and the constant gurgle of water pushing against him from the current of the river. Then there's a crunch of gravel under his leaden boots as his foot _finally_ touches the floor for the first time in what feels like hours. Gaining his balance, the pair heave themselves out of the icy water like a pair of Gollums from Lord of the Rings that have gone over-ambitiously after a fucking evil dogfish in this stupid river of death.

Scrambling up the bank, Dean collapses to the ground and marvels at the sheer bliss of just being about to sit there and not be haggled by freaky unknown monsters, freefalls, or drowning. Shivering, he peels off his water-logged jacket, swipes the waterfall from his face and glances over at the bedraggled Seraph that drops down next to him with very little of the usual grace that usually gives him the air of an aggrieved cat.

Although, Dean reckons that if you poured a bucket of icy water over a black cat, it's pissed off reaction would mirror the furious irritation on the angel's face. Castiel is shivering as well, dwindled Grace still not enough to off-put long exposure to cold air, but he's not panting like Dean is, though he's certainly just as soaked through. There's a long tear down the back of his trenchcoat, though it's not done more than fray the suit jacket underneath, but the sleeve of his injured arm is nothing but tatters dripping scarlet tinted water.

The hunter's not really worried about it, juice leak Cas may have, but there's Grace enough in him that the arm would probably heal quick enough that any stitching would likely just need to be all taken out again as soon as it's finished. Which if nothing else would severely test Dean's patience.

Castiel's hair is plastered to his forehead, water dripping unheeded as those stupid blue laser eyes turn on him like a scanner, searching for injuries like a bloodhound on a fox trail.

There's no need for it. Dean's as surprised as Castiel seems relieved to find that; other than the cut from the rock on his palm, and the bruise he'll likely be sporting from his back from Cas-missile hitting him mid-air, he's mostly okay.

Those old blue eyes swing up to the dam in the distance, eyeing up the concrete structure that was blushing in the sunset rays that were ever darkening with each passing minute. They'd been swept further downstream than Dean had thought they had. Pulling out his walkie-talkie the thing croaked out _hisst_ and _izzit_ and then died altogether. Swearing, the hunter wrapped his arms around his knees and shivered miserably. "Can't you zap us back up there?" He growled blackly, pie and a shower, they were his only two priorities from that moment on. After making sure Sam was okay of course.

Yell at Sam for being late. Have hot shower. Eat hot pie.

In that order.

Life goals.

Castiel sends him an exasperated stare, the dude looks every bit as drained as Dean felt. "I…will not attempt it." Is all the answer he deems Dean requires.

It's the pause of uncertainty that pisses the hunter off most. "Any particular reason, Flippers? If Sam doesn't know where we are it could take hours to get back!"

The Seraph gives him a baleful glare, Dean shivers back with a black challenge of his own, and the attention of the angel seems to shift momentarily from the bickering to his own shivering, like he's only just noticed. There's a weird feeling of something _other_ at work, and then all of their clothes were suddenly as dry as if nothing had ever happened. Dean dove back into his discarded jacket like his life depended on it. The hunter is about to snap again, drawing up bicker battle plans with _why the hell didn't you do that sooner?!_ And _let's get this SeaWorld Circus Plane on the move_ at the forefront when he catches the angel wince as he stands.

It's then Dean spots the way his right wing is folded, like it hurts to move any other way and the memory of Castiel _hitting_ something in the fall strikes the hunter again. Some of the irritation drops away, Castiel had come through just as much crap as Dean over the last ten minutes and wasn't bitching about it either way. A Winchester can't be outdone by some prissy-ass angel, that's just wrong.

"I believe Sam will read what happened well enough from the water on the road, Dean." The angel answers, squinting down at his ruined sleeve before flicking his eyes back over the river as if daring the stupid mutt thing to reappear and allow the angel a chance to avenge his coat.

They spot Sam, a small speck at the top of the dam, looking frantically at the landscape downstream for his missing companions, and at the sight, most of Dean's irritation fell away because Sammy was fine. Dean'll kick his ass for it later.

Castiel flares out his left wing, its length stretching away from the older hunter over the river again, blazing like fire against the evening sunlight even when bedraggled and tangled all to hell. Sam waves like an idiot, spotting them despite the distance, because who the hell could not see a giant black flag dripping everywhere.

Sam hovers uneasily in the distance at the rails, before it seems to occur to him that if the pair of wayward hunters hadn't flown up to meet him already, that probably meant they can't. The huge moose vanished from the sight, running to the Impala to retrieve them like lost mail.

Dean sighs, still shivering lightly. It was gonna be a long wait.

Glancing at the bemused looking Seraph, who was doing his best to hurry Sam along by generally glaring irately in his rough direction, Dean decided that now was the best time to bring up the most important question. "So, Cas. Ever heard the story of the _Ugly Duckling?_ "

Because it's never too late for duck jokes.


End file.
